


Back to First Base

by sencha



Category: Anthropomorfic Sports
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sencha/pseuds/sencha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the perfect day for a bit of not-so-friendly competition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to First Base

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VampirePaladin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampirePaladin/gifts).



> A massive thank you to my beta, T, who provided wonderfully quick feedback for this story.
> 
> To my lovely recipient: Happy Yuletide! I hope you liked this and may you have a wonderful day ♥

 

Bramption Stadium, Canada. It was situated comfortably close to the Powerade Centre, an excellent second-hand shop which made old clay shine like new. The crowds were beginning to gather on the horizon; the sun was peeking out from behind a cloud. Everybody was looking forward to a good Bat-and-Ball game.

 

It was a pity the organisers had forgotten to clarify exactly which game brand was going to be presented.

 

"Ah," said Cricket, making no attempt to hide her disdain. "Baseball."

 

 

 

It was a family business, the Bat-and-Ball one, and Cricket owned one of the largest franchises of all. She had stores operating in Australia, New Zealand, Pakistan and India, as well as in her home country, England, and had a monopoly over the gaming circles of several other smaller countries. She was world class and acted it. Her long blonde hair, completely straight, was brushed back into a ponytail, accenting the sharp angles of her face. Polite and self-assured, Cricket was a seasoned game maker who could pull a shining cup from the ashes.

 

Therefore, she felt it perfectly within her rights to feel insulted when her polished work was compared to her cousin's. For most of the year, Cricket was able to avoid Baseball. From time to time she might catch a glimpse of messy red hair, but Cricket and Baseball spent most of their time in completely different continents. Their games had diverged from the simple Throw-and-Catch design their ancestors had used and now boasted such unique features it was difficult to believe they had once been the same game.

 

Generally, the Baseball games were less favourably received by fans of Cricket’s masterful games, and vice versa. Of course, Cricket had heard of Brampton, the city which loved Cricket and Baseball games equally. However, she had been under the impression that she had been called to exhibit her games, or make a few sales pitches. She had not expected the organisers to schedule a Baseball exhibition for the same week. It was a mistake so monumental it could have had a statue erected in its memory.

 

"I'm very sorry," the organiser said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "I don't suppose it would be possible for the two of you to share the work space?"

 

Cricket and Baseball looked at each other and burst out laughing in a rare display of solidarity.

 

"I'm afraid I am unable to work here under these conditions," declared Cricket in a tone which brooked no argument.

 

"Awesome," replied Baseball. "Then I'll start setting up."

 

Cricket realised with crushing disappointment she should have known never to declare so early in the morning.

 

"On second thoughts," she said, "we'll try it."

 

Baseball glared. Cricket squared her shoulders and walked briskly to the Exhibition Hall, gloating inwardly when Baseball had to push her shorter legs into a jog to keep up. By the time they reached the room, though, Cricket was panting. It was a long walk, and while Cricket was quite fit, her cousin had seemingly endless stamina.

 

Baseball stuck her tongue out and spread out her lawn so she could begin assembling her bags of bases. Not to be outdone, Cricket clenched her fists around her bat and began thumping runs out on Baseball's lawn.

 

"You'll ruin my lawn!" cried Baseball. She picked up a run and examined it closely. "Those aren't even proper runs. You've forgotten the bases again."

 

Cricket snatched the run back. "I don't need bases to make my runs."

 

Baseball threw up her towels. "Go break some windows and get out of my space."

 

"That's more your thing, if I recall correctly."

 

"Well you don't," Baseball retorted. "Old hag."

 

"You're older than me," countered Cricket. "By...how many years was it again?"

 

"Your memory's going faster than I'd thought," sneered Baseball, but her voice was high and her aim unsteady. Cricket smirked.

 

"Three hundred years," she said, relishing the look on Baseball's face.

 

"Liar!" screamed Baseball. "You dirty, lying, stupid -- "

 

There were twenty four ways of making Baseball lose her temper immediately, but mentioning her age was still the best. Cricket took the opportunity to roll back Baseball's lawn and set up her own sales pitch.

 

 

 

Before the day was over it was clear that the Exhibition Hall was nowhere near large enough to fit both game makers. On one side of the stadium, Baseball scribbled down ideas as they came to her, drumming her balls into the clay at precise angles to create complex and beautiful shapes. She was flushed and excited, almost flying around her half as she joined together a stunning collection of runs with her bat. Meanwhile, Cricket worked quietly, building up a large pile of runs and placing them carefully in position. Between Baseball's wide-spaced, flashy contraptions and the sheer volume of Cricket's runs, the two game makers were constantly invading each other's space.

 

“I don’t suppose the two of you would consider a joint exhibition instead?” asked the organiser, dabbing his bald forehead.

 

“We could try,” said Cricket, determined to act like a lady this time. Beside her, Baseball scoffed.

 

“Yeah, or you could leave.”

 

That, in essence, was the problem with their relationship. Cricket and Baseball were so different it was difficult to believe they were cousins. Baseball refused to change the order in which she batted her runs. She believed the clay used to make the runs were affected by the remnants of other clay types she had previously taken her bat to. On the other hand, Cricket prided herself on her adaptability and would not hesitate to change a Broad for a Bell if she felt the latter would work better with her bat. If Baseball was a little more polite, a little more composed, Cricket felt they could become close friends, but Baseball believed it was more important to be herself, whatever Cricket thought of her.

 

By the time Cricket declared herself done for the day, it was too dark to see the seats around the stadium. She hefted the piles of runs into her handbag and put her bat back into its case by her hip. She was looking forward to a relaxing night in her hotel room after the unpleasant surprises of the day.

 

 

 

For all their differences, Cricket and Baseball were sometimes so synchronised it scared them. As Cricket pushed the button for the sixth floor, Baseball tapped her foot impatiently, squashing herself into the corner of the lift so she was as far from Cricket as possible. A childish tactic, but effective. Cricket took the hint and remained silent until the lift stopped at the sixth floor and Baseball elbowed past.

 

“Must you be so rude?”

 

Baseball rolled her eyes.

 

“Grow up. It’s every girl for herself out here.” Personally, Cricket thought that was a little overdramatic, even for Baseball.

 

“There is such a thing as common courtesy,” she replied irritably. “Failing that, I thought you might still hold some respect for your elders, especially those you are related to, but I suppose I should have known how ungrateful you are, considering your disloyalty to your home. Grandmother Stoolball barely knows you anymore.”

 

Baseball laughed. “Like you can talk. You can’t stay at the same company for more than a century or two, can you? I wonder what the guys at Australia think of you now.”

 

"I still love Australia and Australia still loves me," snapped Cricket, feeling hot and embarrassed and too tightly-strung. Usually that was Tennis' problem, but being around Baseball always seemed to make Cricket feel boring and inferior. "It's just that I'm finding it difficult to work with the materials they're giving to me. Spin Bowlers are fine, but many other clays are beginning to overpower them now. I need more Fast Bowlers, but from what my boss is telling me, I won't be able to get my hands on enough for the next few years, at least. I _had_ to look back home and in other countries for better materials so I could continue to make interesting games."

 

Baseball stuck her fingers in her ears, walking swiftly away from her cousin. “Do I look like I care?”

 

"I'm not like you," Cricket continued, pitching her voice close to the ground. "You've been swinging your bat around in the American offices for the past three hundred years. Now you do nothing but visit Soccer when he's in Asia. You won't even acknowledge Rounders as your father!"

 

Baseball's looked at her witheringly. "Because he might not be. Abner Doubleday -- "

 

"Abner Doubleday is a cheating scoundrel," hissed Cricket, "and don't even try mentioning Alexander Cartwright. Your mother is beside herself with shame thanks to you."

 

"For all I knew he was telling the truth," Baseball said, breaking into a run as she headed back to her base. "We all know what Mom was like."

 

It was just like Baseball to throw a curveball where Cricket had expected a straight. Still, Cricket had always been better at controlling her delivery than her cousin. Her flat tone was pitched high, reaching out to her cousin over the growing distance between them.

 

"Like mother, like daughter, is it?" called Cricket. "Your boyfriend Soccer doesn’t seem to realize you’ve been pitching yourself more at American Football nowadays. Careful you don't accidentally get yourself caught out with a fledgling American Baseball to look after."

 

Baseball stomped towards her, the sound of metal clanging against a helmet. "How dare you!"

 

"I bet you'd let _him_ touch your mounds.”

 

Baseball turned around. She was winding herself up for a big pitch, backing up to bang it in where it hurt, but Cricket was sure it would be all air and no direction. She was determined to catch her cousin out.

 

"You're the one always letting streakers parade themselves around when you have your sale pitches," said Baseball. "You say you try to keep them out, but in reality you're just waiting for them to force their way past your defences." She didn't care if she was venturing into the foul zone. As far as Cricket was concerned, the more extroverted cousin was always one strike off out, and fouls don't matter so much when you're on your last legs.

 

Cricket felt as if her cousin had pitched the line straight to her stomach. Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

 

"I can't believe you brought up the streaker incidents," she said, voice shaking. "I hope everyone forgets about you and leaves you to rot as a footnote in a different sport's Wikipedia article!"

 

Baseball’s eyes were burning. They could have fired all of Cricket’s clays in a second.

 

“There’s only one way to settle this,” she said coldly. “Let’s have a match.”

 

Cricket folded her arms across her chest. “Your silly games couldn’t begin to compare to my masterpieces.”

 

“I think we’ll let the crowds decide that,” replied Baseball. “Or are you too scared to take me on?”

 

Cricket couldn’t bear it anymore. She walked to her room as fast as she could, making sure she locked the door behind her before she threw herself on the bed and pointedly did not cry.

 

 

 

There had been a time when Cricket and Baseball had been friends. They had been quite similar then, both young, ambitious game makers hoping to revolutionize the world of toys. Perhaps it had been the competitive nature of the Bat-and-Ball sector which had caused them to drift apart. Or maybe it had been Baseball’s increasing arrogance.

 

Cricket sighed and pushed herself off the bed. She walked over to the mirror over her dressing table and stared her reflection. Over the years, Baseball’s hair had darkened to a fiery red, while Cricket had retained the pale locks of their childhood. Baseball, the shorter cousin, had a slim yet shapely figure and an outgoing personality which accounted for her unending string of boyfriends. On the other hand, Cricket had virtually no waist and readily admitted she was far too bony.

 

She hadn’t scored a date since her short-lived relationship with Tennis a couple of decades ago. Many of the game makers found her polite but a little distant, and Basketball had even dared to call her dull once.

 

Cricket knew she was still incredibly popular, but she worried sometimes. Most children nowadays lacked the stamina to watch games being made for more than an hour or two, and if that trend continued, it would be a serious blow to her popularity in a couple of decades. Such children would invariably favour the flashier sports like Basketball, and she had to admit that even Baseball’s games were more eye-catching than hers; Cricket knew children loved the anticipation of wondering whether Baseball would decide to turn three bases into a run.

 

Cricket took her bat out and held it up. Perhaps it was time to change her game. It seemed like the only way to drill some respect into her cousin would be to beat Baseball at her own game.

 

 

 

The crowds were hushed, expectant. The microphone screeched once and fell silent. It was the decisive day of battle.

 

“THIS IS THE MATCH OF THE CENTURY,” the announcer bawled. “THE SHOWDOWN BETWEEN CRICKET AND BASEBALL, TWO OF THE MOST POPULAR BAT-AND-BALL GAME MAKERS OF THIS GENERATION. WILL THE TECHNIQUE-DRIVEN CRICKET PREVAIL? OR WILL BASEBALL’S FLASHY METHODS WIN OUT OUR YOUNG CROWD?”

 

Cricket had spent many hours over the past few days wondering if she was really doing the right thing. She hesitated as she reached in her bag. It would be so easy to keep to what she was used to. Her supporters would love it, as always, and what she was planning on doing could very well isolate her from many of her fans. She gulped and extracted a large lump of clay from her bag.

 

“AND CRICKET HAS THE SACHIN TENDULKAR OUT,” the announcer shouted, trying to make himself heard over the cheers from Baseball’s side of the stadium. “SHE’S PLANNING ON MAKING A LOT OF RUNS TODAY!”

 

Cricket lifted her bat over her head and began to shape the clay. The strokes felt strange, like when she decided to cut the clay rather than sweep over it. This was so much simpler, and it felt wrong, beating the clay without any sense of technique. It was powerful, but it wasn’t what she was used to.

 

The announcer was realizing it too. “THERE’S SOMETHING OFF ABOUT CRICKET’S BATTING TECHNIQUE TODAY! IS SHE GOING TO SHOW US SOMETHING AMAZING…OR WILL THIS BLOW UP IN HER FACE?”

 

 

 

At last, it was over. Halfway through the match, Baseball had stormed over to Cricket and demanded to know what in the Bat-and-Ball business she thought she was doing. Cricket had ignored her cousin, focussed solely on the runs taking shape before her eyes.

 

“IT’S TIME FOR THE GAME MAKERS TO INTRODUCE THEIR DESIGNS!” shouted the announcer. “WE WILL FINALLY LEARN WHAT IT IS ABOUT CRICKET’S GAME THAT HAS BASEBALL SO WOUND UP!”

 

Cricket took a deep breath.

 

“This is what I call the Original Bat-and-Ball game,” she said, gesturing to her game. “Just simple runs and simple batting. I’ve been thinking about my game a lot over the past few days, trying to come up with the best design I could present to all of you. What I realized was that there is no need for me to compete with my cousin. Baseball makes wonderful games and I recognize that. There will always be people who prefer her games, but there will always be people who prefer mine, too. We both have the pleasure of working in the Bat-and-Ball gaming industry and I thought that instead of trying to pick ‘the best’ game maker today, we should celebrate the Bat-and-Ball industry as a whole.”

 

Baseball threw her bat onto the ground.

 

“You just couldn’t figure out a way to beat me, could you?”

 

“Well, you do have slightly more supporters than me,” said Cricket. “It was unlikely that either of us would be able to grab fans from each other. I did consider imitating your style, but that would be pointless since it’s your style for a reason. I do think celebrations are better than competitions, though.”

 

Baseball scrunched up her face in disgust. “That’s so typical of you.”

 

They looked out over the crowd. Some lone faces cheered, and some others booed, but the majority of fans were simply frozen with gaping mouths, still unsure how to react.

 

“I suppose I should go back to piling on runs after this, though,” said Cricket.

 

Baseball smiled wryly. “And I guess it’s back to first base for me.”

 

Cricket smiled back and held out a hand.

 

“I never thought I’d say this,” she said, “but it was good seeing you.”

 

Baseball laughed. “I’m not shaking hands with you.”

 

Before Cricket could fire off an indignant report, Baseball stepped forward and threw her arms around her taller cousin.

 

“It was good seeing you too,” she said, then stepped on Cricket’s toes. “I’ll see you next year...if you stay popular enough to get invited back.”

 

“I think you’re the one who should be worrying about popularity,” sniffed Cricket. “I expect many Baseball fans will become Cricket converts after seeing my ladylike display of sportsmanship. The ball’s in my court now.”

 

“You’ve been spending too much time with Tennis,” groused Baseball. “And I don’t buy that at all. You’ve probably disappointed all my bloodthirsty little fans.”

 

“Let’s see you put your bat where your balls are, then,” said Cricket. “I’ll be waiting for you next year.”

 

Baseball grinned. The crowd finally settled on a reaction and began cheering wildly.

 

“Bring it on.”

**Author's Note:**

> Brampton Stadium is currently in production but does not yet exist.


End file.
